


Stay By The Fire

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Alienist (TV), The Alienist - Caleb Carr
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Slash, Reckless Laszlo, Winter, despairing John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 21:38:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17190794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: John tugs off a glove, touches his knuckles to Laszlo’s cheek. Laszlo tries to draw away, but it’s too late.“You’re frozen almost solid!” It’s then he notices Laszlo’s bare hands, tucked into his lap, clenched in the blanket. “Where the devil are your gloves?”The absence of a reply gives John his answer.It's the middle of winter, and it falls upon John to prevent Laszlo succumbing to the cold like the reckless fool he is.





	Stay By The Fire

Even the leather roof secured around them cannot prevent the biting wind whistling through the calash, even stationary as it is, nipping at ankles and faces, a bitter reminder that winter has well and truly arrived in New York. Every so often the view through the little window is obscured by a flurry of snow, glowing orange in the light of the gas lamps, making it seem several degrees colder, and their quarry must surely be a madman if he’s going to venture out in this.

John shivers, pulls the blanket a little tighter around his knees. They’re sharing it, he and Laszlo, sat side by side on the bench, each looking out of his own window. God, what he wouldn’t give for a blazing fire and a nip of brandy. Or two.

After another interminable period of staring out into the icy darkness John feels Laszlo shift, hears a quiet sniffle. He risks leaving the street unobserved for a second to glance across at his companion, and it is promptly forgotten entirely at the sight that greets him. Even in the low light, Laszlo’s lips look almost blue, and he is clearly trying to suppress his shivering.

“Christ, man, you’re freezing!”

Laszlo barely looks away from the window. “Nonsense, John. I am perfectly fine.”

John tugs off a glove, touches his knuckles to Laszlo’s cheek. Laszlo tries to draw away, but it’s too late.

“You’re frozen almost solid!” It’s then he notices Laszlo’s bare hands, tucked into his lap, clenched in the blanket. “Where the devil are your gloves?”

The absence of a reply gives John his answer.

“Back at Seventeenth Street with your scarf, I’ll wager.” He shakes his head, despairing at Laszlo’s careless lack of regard for his own wellbeing. No doubt he had rushed from his house to collect John and investigate this lead in such a hurry he hadn’t stopped even to dress himself appropriately. Damn fool. John slides closer to Laszlo on the bench, turns to him. “Give me your hands.”

“There’s no need to fuss, John,” Laszlo insists, but John ignores him, takes both of Laszlo’s hands and clasps them between his own. The long fingers are chilled, trembling, and John squeezes them a little tighter, trying to warm them back to a less concerning temperature. “I’ll go fetch Stevie. Let’s get home and warm up.”

“But, John—”

John cuts the protest short. “Don’t be an ass, Kreizler. If the fellow has not shown his face by now, I doubt he will do so at all tonight.” Laszlo looks like he’s about to argue further, so John continues, appeasing. “We can return tomorrow.”

Laszlo sighs. He will never admit defeat, but it’s as close as John will get to agreement. Reluctantly releasing Laszlo’s hands, he jumps from the carriage, pulls his coat more securely about him, and darts off in search of the boy.

The temperature does not improve on the ride home; the speed of the calash instead dashing the cold wind more sharply against them. John sits shoulder to shoulder with Laszlo, forgoing decorum for the sake of warmth, sharing body heat, his thigh pressed to Laszlo’s, the blanket draped across them both. Laszlo, for all his earlier insistence that he was fine, does not complain when John slips an arm around him, drawing him close, and he is shivering more noticeably now, unable to control the tremors, his breath puffing out to turn to mist in the frigid air, teeth chattering audibly even over the clatter of Frederick’s hooves.

When they finally arrive back at 283 East 17th Street, John is grateful to see a fire already roaring in the parlor. Cyrus, God bless the man, has anticipated their need, and John cannot thank him enough as he ushers Laszlo into the room, a guiding hand at the bottom of his spine. Laszlo grumbles a token protest as John all but manhandles him into his housecoat, fastening it snugly before urging him to sit on the loveseat that’s positioned in the optimal spot to benefit from the warmth of the fireplace without the heat becoming stiflingly unbearable. Laszlo looks unhappy at this treatment, but he’s in no position to complain, given how he’s still shivering, cheeks ruddy on his otherwise worryingly pale face.

Cyrus reappears with two cups of steaming coffee – which John soon notes contain a splash of whiskey – and a thick, afghan blanket. The big man truly is a Godsend, and John wonders how Laszlo ever managed without him. Ignoring Laszlo’s grumpy glower, John sinks down beside him and they sip their coffees. The heat of the cup is almost as heavenly as the drink it contains, and John cradles it between his palms, allowing the warmth to leach into his skin.

Laszlo gradually begins to thaw, no longer in danger of turning into an icicle, but the odd tremor still shudders through his compact frame. John sets their empty cups out of the way, and turns to pull the reckless alienist to him. There’s a moment of resistance, and then Laszlo sags against him, instinctively curling into the heat of his body.

John’s heart gives a leap. It’s an unexpected, uncharacteristic display of vulnerability, of trust, and he can’t help the fond smile that curves his lips. Boldly, he folds his arms around Laszlo, drawing the blanket up over them both, and he’s half expecting an objection that doesn’t materialize. Instead, Laszlo’s hand comes to rest atop his, locking him in place. The fingers are no longer frighteningly chilled, no longer in need of reviving, but perhaps they don’t need an excuse.

“You have to admit,” John says, voice soft, muffled a little where he’s pressed his cheek to Laszlo’s hair, “this is a far more agreeable way to spend a cold winter’s evening.”

Laszlo hums, a sound that could hold any meaning or none at all; but here and now, sitting in a warm, comfortable embrace in front of a crackling fire, it sounds like agreement.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from 'So Be Damned' by Laurence Fox


End file.
